


Summer Omens

by asparkofgoodness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Beaches, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, One Shot Collection, Pining, Summer, Summer Omens, challenge, inevitable angst, sand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 18,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparkofgoodness/pseuds/asparkofgoodness
Summary: A collection of my one-shot ficlets for my Summer Omens prompts.#28: swim -“Come swim,” Crowley said with a squeeze of his hand.#29: fireworks -“Trust me,” he whispers, and Aziraphale does, lets himself be pulled into a side door and up flight after flight of stairs.  They dead-end into a door that Crowley kicks open and enter someone’s rooftop garden.  We shouldn’t be here, he almost says.  But Crowley’s eyes are sparkling behind his glasses, and his hand is tugging him down a row of flowering plants, and he forgets himself in the view of the city waiting for him just ahead: all of London spread out before them, twinkling and alive.#30: stargazing -As the shadows swallowed her figure, he thought: if there were a place where no one was watching, where no one cared how close they stood or how often they talked or how brightly his eyes lit up when Crowley entered any room, perhaps that place was somewhere off among the stars.  Perhaps, some day, they’d go dare to go there.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 109
Kudos: 100





	1. sand

“Oh, for the love of all that is…Angel!” 

Though the interior of the Bentley muffled his voice, Crowley’s tone still made Aziraphale flinch.“What’s the matter?”

Practically shoving him aside, Crowley had crawled half on to the passenger seat of the car as soon as Aziraphale had climbed out of it.He was sweeping his hand over the seat.“Sand!” he growled.

Since Crowley couldn’t see him, Aziraphale allowed himself a particularly dramatic eye roll.“I am terribly sorry.Thought I got it all.”He glanced down at the tartan bag in his hands.“That’s always the problem with sand, isn’t it?Gets in everything.”

“Exactly why,” Crowley muttered, now brushing the sand off the floor of the car and out the door, “I am not a fan of beach days.”

Aziraphale had been the one to suggest the day trip to Camber Sands.With the apocalypse successfully averted and their Head Offices leaving them alone for now, he felt they deserved a chance to relax, get away from the bustle of the city for a day.He was tempted to remind Crowley that he had agreed to the idea with little resistance, but he held his tongue.

Sand invasion aside, it had been a lovely day.The beach had been surprisingly uncrowded for the time of year, and the clouds had been few and far between.Crowley had insisted on staying out of the shade of Aziraphale’s umbrella, opting instead for basking in the full sun.This decision led to a lengthy debate about the importance of sunscreen culminating in the checkmate of Aziraphale’s strong hands on Crowley’s back, rubbing the cold lotion in and instantly causing Crowley to fall silent.A pleased smirk on his face, Aziraphale settled in to read his book and let Crowley recover.

After a few hours of quiet – Aziraphale reading, Crowley people-watching and digging shapes into the sand with his fingers – Crowley stood and sauntered toward the water.Curious, Aziraphale watched him from above his book.Residual tension from the past decades lingered in Crowley’s shoulders, jaw, and hands, and Aziraphale frowned, wondering what could be keeping him on edge.Each day that passed without a letter from Gabriel made him more confident in their victory.No one was watching them anymore.Somehow, despite them, the world had been saved, and now it was theirs to enjoy.

And yet, Crowley was still on guard, and Aziraphale was still watching, worrying silently from a distance. _Oh, we’re both being ridiculous_ , thought Aziraphale as he noted the page he was on, closed his book, and set it carefully in his bag. _Old habits, I suppose._ He took a moment to gather his courage, then stood and followed Crowley’s footprints down to the water’s edge.

Crowley had waded in up to the middle of his chest.With hesitant steps, Aziraphale worked to catch up, pausing every few inches to acclimate to the chilly water.Ahead of them, the waves stretched out to the bottom of the clear blue sky, and he wondered just how many times over the ages he’d stood in awe of earthly beauty, always feeling as if it were the first time, in Eden, surrounded by the sands of the untouched planet. 

One glance at Crowley’s face told him he must be thinking something similar.How lucky they were to be here, still.Together, and with time enough to sort things out that needed sorting.Without a word, Aziraphale reached blindly out through the water and found Crowley’s hand with his.They stood like that for a long time, swaying gently with the waves, until Crowley began to shiver and they returned to the beach to warm up, sand sticking to their wet skin.As he opened his book again, Aziraphale looked over at Crowley stretched out in the sun and thought he seemed just a little more at ease than he had in years.

Unsurprisingly, that calm had completely evaporated at the sight of sand in his precious car.“Would you like me to miracle it away?” Aziraphale asked.

“I doubt even a miracle could get it all.”He was inspecting the floor of the car where Aziraphale’s bag had been, picking grains up with thumb and forefinger.Aziraphale was more than happy to wait for him to finish.The night was still young, after all.Perhaps he could persuade Crowley to try the new hibachi restaurant that had opened up a few streets over.Or the tapas place with the pages-long wine menu.He didn’t care what they did next: he just wasn’t ready for the day to end.

Because that was the thing with sand, wasn’t it?It was everywhere – in your hair, in your clothes, in miles across the bottom of the ocean and the surface of the Sahara – except at the top of the hourglass, where you needed it most.The closer they had been dragged to the end of the Earth, the more apparent this shortage of time had become.Now they had earned more, but was it truly theirs, or simply borrowed?

Finally, Crowley climbed out of the car, closed the door, and leaned back against it, clearly not eager to end the day, either.

“Dinner?”

“Alright.”

“Let me just bring this inside,” he said, holding up the bag, “and get the suits hung up to dry.The damp can ruin them.”He headed for the bookshop, Crowley following behind.“Not that I anticipate another day trip in your future, after that.”

“It’s not the trip I minded.I’m sure there’re plenty of places we could visit that wouldn’t require cleaning the car after.”

He held the door open for Crowley.“Somewhere landlocked, perhaps?”

Crowley thought about the soothing rush and retreat of waves, the feel of warm skin surrounded by cool water.“Yeah, or… some beaches have those little stones instead.Should be safe.”

“Whatever you like, dear,” Aziraphale answered with a smile.


	2. ice cream

“Isn’t this a bit backwards?”Silence.“We’re actually on the way to dinner, in case you’ve forgotten.Where they’ll serve you real food first and then whatever fancy dessert you like afterward.Certainly something a bit nicer than a,” he squinted up at the menu, “‘knickerbocker glory.’”

“I promise I won’t spoil my appetite,” Aziraphale answered as he waved at the approaching employee.“Hello!One ‘strawberry shortbread extravagance,’ please.”He handed over money that definitely had not been in his pocket a moment earlier, paused, and added, “with two spoons.”

Crowley made a face at him that suggested he would not be tasting anything with the word ‘extravagance’ in its name.Settling back in his seat at the counter, Aziraphale ignored him.After a long couple of days of packing, he was thankful for the chance to relax.

“It’s a special occasion, you know.They may not have a sweets shop like this where we’re going.”

Crowley turned slightly toward him, arm stretched out across the back of his chair.One corner of his mouth curved upward.“You’re right.I bet there’s not one single ice cream shop in the whole South Downs area.Does that change your mind, angel?”

The young woman behind the counter approached, holding a glass dish piled high with strawberry-swirled ice cream, chunks of shortbread, and a mountain of whipped cream.With a pleasant “enjoy,” she hurried off to help other customers.

“Not in the slightest,” Aziraphale said as he picked up his spoon.He watched the playful smirk on Crowley’s face turn into a small but genuine smile, something warming inside him.“For every aspect of life in London I shall miss,” he added as he scooped up a spoonful of sundae, “I know there will be two aspects of country life that I’ll enjoy.”

Crowley hadn’t touched his spoon.The artificial pink concoction called to mind the last time Aziraphale had offered him ice cream: a pink lolly in his hand, but he wasn’t the one holding it.That day, in the park, at the end of it all.Buzzing with nerves in a body that wasn’t his, waiting to be caught and dragged off to face whatever Heaven might throw at him.How hard it had been not to give it away, not to fight, when they grabbed him.The helpless look on his own face as Aziraphale had realized time was up.

“Oh, you have to try a bite,” Aziraphale insisted, bringing him back to the present.“It’s absolutely scrummy.”He held out his spoon, covered in pink and white, in front of Crowley’s face.

Relenting, Crowley opened his mouth.As he ate the ice cream – which was, he hated to admit, actually very good, despite the absurd name – he watched Aziraphale’s bright eyes watching him, waiting for a reaction.He knew there were a number of ice cream shops near the cottage.Nothing this fancy, sure, but nice enough.Quaint.Quiet.New, where they could make new memories to patch over the rough ones.Just a few more boxes, one more night, and they’d be on the way.

“Yeah, alright, it’s not bad.”

Aziraphale’s smile grew until it crinkled the corners of his eyes.“I knew you would like it.”

“Too bad they haven’t heard of ice cream where we’re going.We’ll have to make our own if we want any.Carve ice from the ponds like they used to, drag it inside.Get cream from the cows and–”

Another spoonful, much less delicately offered than the first, shut him up.


	3. burn

Firedrops rained down around him, fading to flecks of ash in the tangles of his hair.Figures wrapped in blankets were huddling together in alleyways.Chaos.People rushed past, dragging carts and carrying belongings, heading for the frantic mass crowded around the closest gate.The sun had set, but the streets were cast in a flickering, harsh amber glow that threw ghoulish shadows on the walls of the buildings fortunate enough to still be standing.London was burning.

The air hung, thick with smoke and the cries of the desperate, in the narrow cobblestone streets of the city.To his left, a man tripped and fell.Another shouted something about foreigners.Raised his arm above the fallen figure, iron bar in hand. _No time,_ he thought, but he veered left to grab the bar from the man’s hand as he strode past.Tossed it in the nearest broken window.Up ahead, he could see the towering rooftop of his destination: St. Paul’s. 

If the rumors were true, there was not much time, maybe an hour before total collapse.And he knew he’d be there.“A kind gentleman,” they’d said, welcomed them to the safety of the church.Comforted their children.Tended to their burns.Fed and clothed them.In a city slowly smoldering closer to extinction, brawling with itself in the burning streets over gold and papers and blame while the Lord Mayor turned his back on the firemen’s advice, only one person could be that stupidly selfless.And Crowley knew that he’d need convincing to abandon ship.

“This was no accident, no sir,” a man spat, holding open the door of a shop to argue with a militiaman.“It’s the damned French.You should be out hunting them, ‘stead of trying to tear down my property.”

“But it’s moving this way, and if we can’t create a firebreak–”Their conversation faded into the noise of the street.

He fought against the tide of fleeing people until he reached the ornate doors of the cathedral.After holding the door for a crying woman carrying a swaddled infant, he stormed inside.“Aziraphale!” he called, and he followed his reverberating voice into the vast, dark space.

He found him deep within the building, where few people remained.Something in him burned at the sight: Aziraphale leaning over a prone figure, the silver-blue of his outfit darkened with soot, tights scorched and ripped, holding out his hand.“It’s not safe here anymore,” he was telling the woman.Looking out for the unworthy and doomed, as always.The sight brought forth the memory of a white wing extended toward him, as if he had been deserving of shelter.Of the kindness in his blue eyes.Of something close to love.

“Where should I go?” she asked, struggling to her feet.

“Beyond the wall is the best bet now.Be careful.”

She thanked him quietly and shuffled off toward the door.Crowley noticed her arms were bare.Nothing left to carry.

“Crowley?Why are you here?”

He forced his mind back to the present danger.“Because someone has to tell you the same thing you just told her.Let’s go.”

“There are more, down in the crypts with their things, and there are books– If you follow me, we can–”

“Miracle them to safety as we leave?Deal.”

Shoulders sagging, Aziraphale shook his head in silent answer.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.“No miracles?”He stepped closer.“You’re telling me all this,” he hissed, “is _supposed_ to happen?”

“I was directed not to interfere.”A second passed after the admission, Crowley reading the pain and anger in his eyes.“But that doesn’t mean… I had to do something to help them.”

“Well, you did.Saved a lot of people.Now it’s your turn.”He grabbed Aziraphale’s arm.

“No, not while there are–”

A sharp crack overhead.Stone crumbled and fell with a sound that echoed through them.Flames followed, a wooden beam tumbling in and igniting a section of pews with stunning swiftness.

Crowley tightened his grip.“We’re leaving.Now.”And as they disappeared, the people still scattered throughout the dark recesses of the cathedral heard an urgent, breathless whisper in the air: _run_.

They reappeared in total darkness.A snap of fingers illuminated the country road they stood on and the surrounding fields.Crowley had briefly considered the room he kept in Rome, but he knew Aziraphale would resent being taken so far away from the crisis.

“Where are we?” he demanded, wrenching his arm out of Crowley’s grasp.

“Just outside the city.”

“Those people–”

“I warned them.”

Aziraphale shot him a reluctant glance of appreciation, then gazed around at their surroundings.“I can’t just stand in a field while people burn.I need to get back to the city.If you won’t help me, I’ll… I’ll have to find a horse, and–”His voice broke, then, and he turned away from Crowley.

Rage burned inside Crowley’s chest.As if it weren’t disgusting enough that the powerless humans had to suffer in the name of God’s ineffability, he knew Aziraphale felt it all: their fear, their anguish, their loss of faith.Just as there was nothing Aziraphale could do to save them, there was nothing Crowley could do to end his grief.The cruelty of Heaven, Crowley knew, was something he’d have to come to terms with on his own.So Crowley did the only thing he could do to help: he reached out a hand and placed it timidly on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Shakily, Aziraphale looked up at him with reddened eyes.“How many times,” he started softly, pausing to choose his words carefully, “must they suffer such immense atrocities while we look on in silence?”

Having no answer to offer, Crowley turned his gaze to the earth beneath their feet.They stood like that for a while, until Aziraphale’s breathing evened out.“I do… appreciate you coming to look for me.”

“If you still want to help,” Crowley said, lowering his hand, “there’s a bit of grass down the road where they’re setting up once they make it past the gates.Could wander over and see what they need.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, blinking slowly, processing.“I… Yes, I’ll do that.”His eyes lit up with a spark that Crowley supposed was hope.“Good idea.Look after yourself.” 

He started to walk down the road and Crowley followed, earning himself a curious glance.“Yeah, well, I’ve got nothing on for tonight.Might as well come along.”

The two of them spent hours in that field: cobbling together shelters, lighting burning torches, healing, listening.The stream of refugees arriving from the city, exhausted but too scared to sleep, continued well past midnight.To cover more ground, they worked separately.Crowley didn’t mind.It wasn’t proper demonic work, and it would be a tad tricky to explain away if Head Office questioned it, but it felt right.If the powers that be order destruction, then helping becomes an act of rebellion, something Crowley had always been fond of.

The night air carried a hint of smoke.When the sun began to rise, he’d thought it firelight for a frightened second.Across the field, he caught Aziraphale’s eye and nodded toward the road.Some humans had begun to help as well, under Aziraphale’s direction.He wasn’t needed anymore.Aziraphale smiled warmly at him, then returned to his work.

Their resilience did not surprise him. _Seen it before,_ he thought as he headed for the road.Give them some time to recover, and humans always found a way to pick up the pieces of what had been thrown at them and continue on.Their city burned yesterday.Today, they would rest.Survey.Mourn.And very soon, they would begin rebuilding.


	4. camp

It began with a storybook about s’mores and ended here: in a tent, the kind with multiple rooms and lots of flaps and features, on the East Lawn in the dark.

“When you– when you go camping,” Warlock asserted, drowsiness creeping in to slur his words together, “you have to put your food high up in a tree or else a bear will come eat it.”

Nanny tugged the zipper up on his sleeping bag.“Don’t worry, dear.If a bear comes along, we’ll just scare it away with our fearsome cries.What does a lion sound like?”

With a giggle, the child bared his teeth and roared.

“And a wolf?”

He howled.

“Very good.All the bears that were nearby just ran away in fear of your great and terrible ferocity.”

A twig snapped outside.They looked at each other.“Nanny, was that…”

A voice from outside the tent asked, “Would any of the wild animals in there like a little bedtime snack?”

“Brother Francis!” shrieked Warlock, clapping his hands.Nanny sighed.The child was just finally settling down.She crawled over to the tent flap, unzipped it, and stuck her head out.

“We were just getting ready for bed,” she said testily.

“But no camping trip is complete without s’mores!”He held out a plate of marshmallows, chocolate, and biscuits, grinning excitedly.

Warlock scrambled out of his sleeping bag at lightning speed.“S’mores!Nanny, s’mores!Like the book!We have to make them!”

Nanny glared at Brother Francis and whispered, “one of his father’s rules was no fire.The lawn is dry.As the gardener, you should–”

“S’mores!” Warlock shouted into Nanny’s ear.She winced.“Please!Please!”

“Oh, alright.But it’ll have to be our secret, Warlock.Remember what I told you about secrets?”

The child’s face grew serious, and he nodded.“That secrets are good and I always have to keep them, no matter what.”

Brother Francis raised an eyebrow, making a mental note to explain the virtues of truth-telling next chance he got.Crowley really was too good at this: not just the evil mentorship part, but the childcare side, as well.There were two sleeping bags spread out on the floor of the tent.Aziraphale recalled a conversation under starlight, centuries ago, stuck in some field waiting for a carriage that never showed, and Crowley’s voice in the dark, insisting “I would rather sleep on a bed of knives, point-side up, than on the ground.”Yet here she was.

“Come in, then,” Nanny said, and Francis did, zipping up the tent behind him.

Warlock grabbed the tray.“To make a s’more,” he recited, having memorized the book, “you have to start a fire.We need a fire!”

Nanny looked at Francis, then learned forward.“I’ll use my secret magic gloves, just this once.”With a snap of her fingers, a small flame roared to life above her hand.

“ _Wow_ ,” said Warlock, picking up a marshmallow.“Brother Francis, you have to keep the secret, too.That’s how secrets work.”

Francis smiled softly at Nanny.“I promise not to tell a soul."


	5. grass

Aziraphale found him, always, in the garden.

It was dinnertime, and after pulling the bread from the oven and tossing the pasta, he had gone looking for him.The late-day sunlight cast slanted shadows on the stone path under his feet.A trail of gardening tools, like breadcrumbs, led him to where Crowley had settled after finishing the day’s weeding and pruning.

The property had been a mess when they moved in last autumn: overgrown, crowded, tangled.Wild.Crowley had taken it on almost immediately, shaping it by hand and scoffing at Aziraphale’s suggestion that he miracle it to save time. _You can’t do that with plants, angel.They know when you’re cutting corners.You have to put the work in._

And they both were.Nearly a year later, and a small-scale paradise surrounded their modest cottage.Aziraphale had learned to cook passably well.The roof no longer leaked, and the wood floors had been refinished, and every room sported a fresh coat of paint.All done by hand.They were practicing living without orders, without rules and consequences, and learning to speak honestly, without fear.It had proved much harder than either had guessed.

But the sight of him, lying on his back, hands clasped under his head, his hair framing his face in ever-growing waves, a sheen of sweat on his brow from the day’s work, and Aziraphale knew it was all worth it.Crowley had not looked so content in decades.Possibly centuries.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said as he wandered closer.

Sitting up, Crowley rested his forearms on his knees and looked up at him.“And what is on the menu tonight, chef?”

“A lemon cream pasta and french bread, paired with that pinot noir we discovered in Lyon.”

“Trying to impress me, are you?”

Aziraphale held out his hand.“Eternally.”Crowley took it, pulling himself up to his feet with a half-smile.“I can’t have you growing bored of me and moving back to the city.I’d have to hire a gardener, for starters, and you know Delores just fired the only one in town after that incident with her azaleas.”

“Don’t you dare let that moron within arms length of anything here.And don’t pretend you wouldn’t miss me,” he added.

Aziraphale chuckled.“You have grass in your hair.”As he pulled a blade from a curl near Crowley’s temple, a section of poetry came to mind.Whitman could be a little too passionate for his tastes, but he had always liked his meditation on the nature of grass.“I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven,” he recited, holding it in the air.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.“And that is…?”

“Whitman.”He continued picking the grass out of Crowley’s hair.“‘Song of Myself.’‘All goes onward and outward.’”

“Isn’t he the bloke who was a little _too_ excited about nature?”

“Pot calling the kettle, dear.”In Crowley’s shocked and wounded silence, Aziraphale leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek.“Let’s eat, before it gets cold.”He led him by the hand out of the garden, toward their home.


	6. pride

The first time, he nearly choked on his Cabernet.Never in a thousand years – and he could say that, truly, having been on Earth for six thousand years and counting – had he thought Aziraphale would actually do it.Whether Crowley wanted him to or not was beside the point.(He did.)Shaking a lifetime of conditioning would take time.Every touch required quieting the voice inside his head whispering _danger;_ each kiss still tasted of forbidden fruit.

So he was understandably gobsmacked when, in front of the waiter and all the patrons of the café he’d picked for dinner, Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s hand.

The second time, on an afternoon stroll through the park, he hadn’t been quite so stunned by Aziraphale’s fingers finding his.He managed to keep pace.He even caught most of Aziraphale’s argument about why he needed to stop chasing away the other people seated at their hibachi table and try to appreciate their company, instead.But the kiss, a quick brush of lips at his temple as they finished feeding the ducks, caught him completely off guard.On the walk home, he could hardly string two words together.He watched his feet, or he watched Aziraphale talk, a dazed expression on his face, like a child at a magic show, about to ask _“how’d you do it?Tell me your secrets.”_

He did ask, in a way, that day in the bookshop, after the third time.After the door closed behind the customer who’d witnessed Aziraphale thank Crowley for handing him a book with a kiss on the lips.He’d retreated to the couch, out of sight, but not out of earshot.

“Would you like a receipt?”

“Oh, no.Thanks again!And you two are adorable, by the way.”

A pause.“That’s very kind of you,” and the words had a joyful lilt to them.“Have a wonderful day.”

After a few minutes, Crowley sidled up next him as he was shelving some new arrivals.“Adorable?” he asked in a tone that shot for disapproval but landed somewhat closer to fond.

Aziraphale kept working, but a smile lit up his face.“Do you disagree?”

Crowley shrugged.

In his silence, Aziraphale seemed to realize something.His smile faltered, and he turned toward Crowley.“Does it bother you?I certainly don’t want to make you uncomfortable in front of others.”

“Nah,” Crowley said, shaking his head.“I don’t mind.It’s just… new, still.A bit of a surprise, is all.Didn’t think you’d be comfortable being like that in public so fast.”

Setting down the book he’d been holding, Aziraphale stepped in close, placing both hands on Crowley’s chest.“I do understand why you would think that, but I am immensely proud of you, Crowley, and of us.Now that I don’t have to hide it, I’m finding it rather easy not to.”

The fourth time, it was Crowley who reached out.Took his hand.Interlaced their fingers.Leaned in for a kiss.Knowing humans, and likely some non-human beings keeping tabs on their former operatives, were watching.Remembering the pride in Aziraphale’s voice, and not caring about anything else.And after that, he stopped counting.


	7. bloom

_1737_

Aziraphale sipped his wine slowly from the sidelines of the party.Based on the conversation over dinner, his job was far from done: he had to keep his head clear.As he contemplated the best way to re-initiate conversation with his host, who had disappeared out of sight half an hour ago, a burst of laughter from the next room drew his attention.“And that, gentlemen,” he heard someone loudly proclaim, “is precisely my point.Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment…”He hurried into the room to see a flash of auburn disappear behind a closing door.Not wanting to arouse suspicion, he waited a few minutes, anxiously emptying his glass before slipping through the door himself.

He was surprised to find himself outside.As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the humidity of the garden air surrounded him, carrying with it a delicate, flowery perfume.It had been raining when he’d arrived; droplets stuck to leaves and blades of grass, capturing the glow from the light inside the house.In the distance, his dark coat blending in with the shadows, stood Crowley, back turned to him.

“What demonic business could you possibly have with a government official’s shrubbery?”

Startled, Crowley turned around, dropping the hand that had been touching a flower.“Aziraphale!Surprised to see you here.Hobnobbing with the elite, are we?”

Silver threads in Crowley’s waistcoat caught the light as he approached, head tilted in curiosity.Aziraphale felt the wine hit him in a rush of warmth.He clasped one hand in the other in front of him.“I have business with the host.Attempting to get him to reconsider a new act he’s supporting.And you?”

A wicked grin spread over Crowley’s face.“Making sure he’s not reconsidering that very same act, I bet.”

“Really!” Aziraphale huffed.“Well, if I had any doubt that censorship was an invention of the devil, now I know for sure.Do you realize what it will do to the playwrights, having their every line examined?And the theaters?”

Still smiling, Crowley sat down on a stone bench.“I know exactly what it’ll do: prick their ambition.Make ‘em angry, which’ll mean they write more and thinly veil their scathing critiques in metaphor.”

Aziraphale blinked.He hadn’t considered that possible outcome.He twisted his ring between his fingers.

“And your lot’s suddenly against censorship?You can’t tell me they now think people should be able to say whatever they want, mock their leaders, even, without consequences.”

“I’m… not exactly here on official business,” Aziraphale admitted, taking a seat next to him.“Just advocating for the arts.I’m not aware of an official stance on censorship.”The bench was smaller than he’d thought.He looked out across the garden, trying to ignore the way he could feel Crowley’s presence by his side.

“Trust me, it’ll work out fine.Artists work best when they’ve got something to prove.And in the meantime, they’ll turn back to what’s safe.No one would dare shut down a Shakespeare.”

“Hm.I have to admit I wouldn’t find that disagreeable.Some of these new plays are… not my cup of tea.”

“Pleased to be of service, then.”

In the silence that followed, Aziraphale tried to will himself to return to the party, but the peace of the garden, the closeness of Crowley, and the intoxicating floral air overpowered his senses.Somehow, something had begun to change between them.To grow.He couldn’t label it, didn’t want to know it by name.Alone, he could ignore it, but now, with wine loosening his thoughts and Crowley mere inches away, he sensed it as clearly as he sensed the coming rain.

“Which plant is responsible for that lovely scent?” he asked, needing to break the quiet with anything at all.

“Jasmine, the little white ones there.Pretty rare.Must’ve been imported.Only bloom at night.”

_Clever_ , he thought, _to protect yourself in daylight and wait until the world’s asleep to open up, if you’re harboring something precious._ He didn’t dare turn his head; he spoke to the night air and the bright blossoms.“I’d best be off.It’s getting late.”Standing, he added, “I’ll look forward to the sudden revival of classic theater you’ve promised.”

“Didn’t actually promise, now, did I?”Crowley drew a branch of white blossoms toward him, studying them.“Humans have a natural talent for rebellion.They’ll find a way to say what they need to, when the time’s right, no matter the cost.”

He found himself wishing, as he walked away, that he could say the same for angels.


	8. sunset

“You’ve got to see this,” Crowley called, setting down a crate of records just inside their new front door.From the room Aziraphale had chosen as his library, he heard the sound of heavy books being shelved, then footsteps.

Aziraphale followed him outside and around to the back of the cottage.“If you’re tired of unpacking, you could just say so,” he muttered as he picked his way through the tall grass of the neglected property.“Don’t have to invent a diversion.”Silently, Crowley held branches aside so he could pass through a thick row of trees.“The bedroom’s all sorted, and the rest of your things can wait if–”

The remainder of his sentence vanished as he took in the sight before him.A valley, stretching for miles, parceled into uneven squares in places by hedgerows and bathed in the gentle warmth of sunset.Where they stood, they were almost even with the glowing sun.He could spy sheep grazing on the next hill over, and a farmhouse in the distance, and crops growing in the fields, all bathed in rays of marigold and blush.He let out his breath in wordless wonder.

“Like I’d go through the trouble of making all this just to get out of an evening of unpacking,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tried to piece together a witty response, but found nothing but awe-struck silence.He felt Crowley step close behind him and place a gentle hand on his hip.They watched the sun sink closer to the horizon.Eventually, Aziraphale admitted, “I know the poets disagree, but I’ve always felt that sunrises have more to do with beginnings than endings.”

Crowley hummed, encouraging him to go on.

“Perhaps it’s simply because I saw a sunset first.That first night, in the garden.I watched from the wall.Do you remember?”

Crowley recalled crawling higher in the tree to get a better look at a fire-hued sky.“Not the sort of thing you forget, is it?”

“No, certainly not.It was breathtaking.Made you wonder what beauty the next day might hold, with everything brand new and hopeful.”

Neither needed to voice that today felt just the same.After years of fixating on endings, sensing the world’s fiery collapse creeping closer each day, they had finally earned themselves a beginning.They stood there, contemplating this rosy promise of tomorrow, until the sunset gave way to shadow and fireflies.


	9. freckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little epilogue to an old story of mine, ["Redeemed From Fire By Fire."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983556) It works best if you've read that story first. 
> 
> If you want to skip straight to this little scene, then here's a summary: after the body swap, Crowley discovers side effects (freckles on his chest, uncontrollable dreams, flashes of light and warmth) that he eventually realizes are manifestations of Aziraphale's love for him, left behind accidentally in his corporation.

“They’re fading,” Aziraphale whispered.Reverently, he skimmed his fingertips over the cluster of barely-visible freckles on Crowley’s chest, just above his racing heart.

“What?”Blinking dazedly, Crowley looked down.“Nah, you just can’t see ‘em well.”Since Aziraphale didn’t enjoy sleeping, he didn’t bother maintaining the bedroom in his flat. This wouldn’t have mattered if they hadn’t found another use for it, one Aziraphale certainly did enjoy, leading them to discover that the room’s singular light fixture no longer worked.Neither had bothered to fix it.The candles he had hastily conjured up filled the room with a flickering glow that barely reached them where they lay.“Disfigured forever.Thanks to you.”He lacked the energy to sound even slightly upset.

Aziraphale glared at him, a gesture more endearing than threatening when paired with his thoroughly tousled curls and flushed cheeks.“I can see just fine.They are definitely lighter than a week ago.Look,” and a faint light shone from his palm onto Crowley’s skin.

“Huh.”Crowley lifted his head up slightly to get a better look, then let it fall back to the bed.“I stand corrected.”

“Is the rest getting better?The dreams, and the light?”

“I suppose, yeah.”

“Good.I know how much it all bothered you.”He settled his head back down on Crowley’s shoulder, arm draped over his waist.

“Eh, at first, maybe.Got used to it.”It wasn’t entirely the truth: your eyes can only adjust so much to the blinding rays of the summer sun.But as he was learning to view the light, the warmth, the dreams as residual love, markers of how Aziraphale saw him, they must have also been fading away into the background of his consciousness.Now, these strange effects of their swap had been so deeply woven into the new experiences of their relationship that he felt a strange sadness at the thought of their disappearance.

Sensing his conflicted feelings, Aziraphale said, “I could make them stay.”Crowley felt his words, puffs of warm air on his skin.“The freckles, I mean.And only if you want them to, of course,” he added.

“Sounds like an admission of guilt,” Crowley teased.“You don’t like seeing your handiwork fade.”

“If you’re going to be like that, I’ll rescind my offer.”

“Touchy.”

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you admiring them.”

Too tired to argue with the truth, Crowley turned his head until his face was buried in Aziraphale’s hair.“Yeah, alright.Go ahead.”He closed his eyes and felt a spot of pleasant heat – the press of a fingertip – and another, and another, as Aziraphale charted constellations of adoration across the canvas of his chest.When he finished, he pressed his lips to the sun-kissed skin, and Crowley drifted off to a sound and peaceful sleep.


	10. sweat

The Bentley skidded around the curve in the road at breakneck speed, mere inches away from the bright red sports car he’d been tailing for miles now.To his left, the snow-covered cliffs towered above him; to his right, the guardrail and the abyss.Sweat dripped down his face, fogging his glasses.Another icy curve, and he seized the chance to steer onto the shoulder, a shortcut that finally put him in the lead.Behind him, the driver of the red car gestured angrily.In the seat next to him, Aziraphale gasped and asked if it was really necessary for him to drive so fast.It was, if he were going to make it to the weapons factory before the bomb detonated.He had mere minutes left.“Almost there.Come on,” he begged through clenched teeth.With the sleeve of his tux, he wiped his forehead.A drop of sweat stung the corner of his eye.The heat in the car was growing unbearable.Up ahead, as they rounded the next turn, he spied the factory.

With a frustrated groan, he yanked the wheel to one side and jammed his foot on the brake.He came to a stop in the middle of the road, forcing the red car to skid to a halt, too.Slowly, he turned to Aziraphale, who stared at him, dazed and terrified and thrilled, and said, “Since when is Moscow hotter than the surface of the sun?I can’t stand this.”

And then he awoke, gradually recognizing the feel of his silken pajamas and the touch of his expensive sheets, furious at the nonsensical heat in his dream that, unlike the other elements of the fantasy, he had definitely not imagined for himself.A strange weight lay on top of him.His eyes took minutes to adjust: _definitely a few months, then._ What did he last remember?Something about cake?A phone call, yes, and Aziraphale prattling on about all the baking he’d been doing since… _Oh,_ he sighed. _Right.That whole fucking mess._

Dread in the pit of his stomach, he blindly patted the nightstand in search of his phone. _Has to be over now, right?When is it?_ June 23rd, his phone informed him.7 missed calls from Aziraphale.6 voicemails.A quick scroll through social media told him all he needed to know.“So the world’s still one big bleeding ball of disaster and despair, and I still can’t leave the flat.How wonderful.”And, judging from the warmth of the room, his flat was currently on fire.

He threw his phone onto the floor, then immediately felt guilty for not having checked his messages first.It wouldn’t have surprised him if Aziraphale had called just to leave voicemails, the way he used to send three, four, five letters before Crowley managed to write one back, but he should check, just in case.If anything was wrong… If something had happened while he’d been deep in self-indulgent dreams…

He sat up, muscles aching, and discovered the source of the unusual weight: a cream-colored duvet, one he had definitely never seen before.No wonder he was boiling.With a look of disgust, he tossed it aside.“Where did you come from?” he asked it.It kept its secrets.

Just then, the door opened an inch, then another.Then it burst all the way open to reveal Aziraphale, a look of excitement on his face.“You’re awake!” he shouted, and Crowley winced, still not fully acclimated back to the land of the living.

“What’re you doing here?Thought there were _rules_ ,” he grumbled.

At that, Aziraphale deflated just a little, but his eyes sparkled as he studied Crowley.“There were.There are.But I did some thinking… Someone had to water your plants while you were asleep–”

“My plants?” Crowley snapped.

“And,” Aziraphale continued, unfazed, “keep an eye on you, and, well, I won’t reopen the bookshop until it’s absolutely safe to do so, so it’s not as if I’m needed there.”

Crowley blinked.Through the fog of his sleep-muddled mind, he could still recognize flimsy excuses when he heard them.With a smirk, he asked, “So you broke the rules?For me?”

“They said you could leave your home for essential reasons.I felt it was essential.I wore a face covering on the walk over.And I’ve been here ever since.”

“My, you’re such a rebel, angel,” he said with a yawn.

“Oh, hush, you.”Pursing his lips, Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed.“Feeling rested?”

“Would’ve slept for another week at least if I hadn’t been suffering from heat stroke and– _You_ did that!” he realized, waving a hand angrily at the duvet.

“You were freezing when I got here.The whole flat was positively arctic.”

“I sleep best cold.Would’ve been just fine.”His eyes narrowed.“Did you touch the thermostat?”

“No.Is that the flat silver object on your desk?The one with the apple on it?It has been making noises, but I didn’t want to pry.”

Crowley rubbed his face vigorously, and his hands came away slick with sweat.“Then why is it sweltering in here?”

“I did miracle it warmer,” Aziraphale admitted.“Only a little.You felt so cold.”

“And?”

“And I have been baking, to pass the time.Most recipes require the oven.”

“And there you have it,” Crowley said, and he fell back on the bed and kicked the covers off.

“I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable.”Aziraphale scooted closer to where he lay.“I was worried about you.And a little bored, I suppose.”

“It’s fine.I get it.”Being woken up never put him in a good mood, but there was something else nagging him.Aziraphale waited patiently as he figured it out.“Thought it’d be over by now.”

He felt a comforting hand pat his ankle.“I know.So did I.”The darkened room fell silent as each of them retreated to their thoughts.After some time, Aziraphale asked, “would you like me to leave?Are you going back to sleep?”

“No,” Crowley said immediately.“No, don’t leave.”Groaning, he sat up again.“It’ll be significantly less miserable with you here.”

At that response, Aziraphale beamed with pleasure.“Yes, it will.We can keep each other occupied.If you hurry and wash up, you can try a macaron fresh out of the oven.”He patted his ankle again, then stood.“Off you go,” and he left the room, leaving the door ajar.

Crowley ran his fingers through his hair, getting used to the new length.He imagined Aziraphale calling and calling him.Talking himself through the reasons he’d offer up if questioned.Finally making the journey, just to discover a snoring Crowley, dead to the world.Padding around the cold stone and marble of his flat, trying not to be too loud, reading and watering his plants and baking warmth into the air.He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.Shaking his head, wondering how he had lucked into Aziraphale moving in with him, at least for the time being, Crowley pushed himself up and out of bed.


	11. festival

_1974_

“When in Rome,” the note said in Crowley’s familiar cursive.With a tilt of his head, Aziraphale examined the white tunic and trousers that had been waiting for him on the unused hotel bed.Since he was in the country to cover a temptation, it didn’t surprise him that Crowley knew where to find him, but the implication that he couldn’t adjust his attire to blend in with the locals was a bit insulting.Still, one should not refuse a gift, even from one’s enemy, he imagined.He put on the clothes and stepped out onto the streets of Delhi.

He was hit by the noise first, a cacophony of honking, conversation, and music.People were everywhere, shouting and laughing and dancing and chasing each other to the beat of drums.The next thing that hit him was a young boy, who tried to run past him and instead knocked into his leg.“Oh!Are you alright?” he asked.When the boy looked up at him, his face was painted bright blue and orange.He giggled and disappeared into the crowd.“How strange.”And then it hit him, at the same time as a fistful of fluorescent pink powder collided with his cheek and exploded into a cloud around his head: _Holi_.

Blinking and coughing at the taste of the dye he’d managed to inhale, he called to mind what he knew about the festival.A celebration of the start of springtime.A festival of love and colors.Every March.He should’ve known.“Happy Holi!” a voice yelled, and the world turned green as more powder was launched into his vision.

“Thank you,” he muttered back, wiping at his eyes.Best to retreat to the safety of the hotel and try again tomorrow.The temptation could wait.Though it was a fascinating sight, the massive crowd full of revelers, carefree and colorful.He stood there, taking it all in for a moment, feeling a little of their infectious joy reach him.“Happy Holi,” another voice said behind him.This one, he recognized.

“You–” was all he managed to get out before he felt something hit the top of his head.He closed his eyes against the rain of powder. 

When he reopened them, Crowley stood in front of him, draped in fabric that had been thoroughly stained in all colors of the rainbow, grinning like the devil himself.“I what?” he asked.

“You’re not supposed to be here, for a start.That’s the whole point of me being here.”

“Well I’m delighted to see you too, angel.”

Against the noise of the crowd, Crowley’s voice barely stood out.Aziraphale stepped closer and noticed Crowley’s face had miraculously stayed free of paint.“You knew it was Holi.”

“Yeah, maybe I did.”

“And you just happened to send me here for it.”

“Well, yeah, but I gave you a change of clothes, didn’t I?” Crowley smirked.“Knew you’d discorporate if you got dye on your old ones.”

He tried to look appropriately put out, an attempt he knew was futile thanks to the slight smile he couldn’t wipe off his face.“There isn’t a job to do here, is there?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t, no.But there is fun to be had.Music.Celebration.Lots of food.”

Shaking his head, he stared at Crowley until a laugh escaped his lips.The specter of the thermos, the last time they’d talked, had all but vanished in this moment of surprising levity.Perhaps that had been Crowley’s aim.He reached for something to say.“You do know Holi is, in part, a celebration of the triumph of good over evil?”

“Eh, that’s just part of it,” Crowley said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Good winning over evil.Springtime.And love.If he had been braver, he would have asked which reason for the festival Crowley intended on celebrating.He could tell him the story of Krishna, skin darkened from poison until he believed no one could love him, and Radha, who painted his face with beautiful colors and fell in love.Instead, he traced Crowley’s jawline with his dye-stained thumb, smearing a spectrum of hues onto his skin.“There, now you’re ready to celebrate.I believe you mentioned food?”

People hurried past them, but Crowley stood very still, lips parted, until he realized Aziraphale was waiting for an answer.“Oh.Food.Yes, there’s… a market.Over that way.Food stalls as far as the eye can see.”

Aziraphale brushed dye out of his hair and grinned.“Lead the way.”


	12. snooze

Faint snoring reached him where he sat in the little library, pulling his attention away from the heavy book sitting on the desk in front of him.He listened for a moment, amused, then went in search of the sound’s source.

The lazy afternoon sunlight floated in through the living room windows, bathing the space in a cozy, inviting warmth.On the TV, a woman gasped as she pulled a tray out of the oven and discovered her biscuits had burned.And on the sofa lay Crowley, sprawled out, limbs bent at odd angles and one arm draped over his eyes, asleep.The clicker was balanced precariously on his open palm.

From the doorway, Aziraphale catalogued the details of the image.The way the sun lit his hair, lending it the gentle glow of campfire embers.The way his mouth had fallen open half an inch.The way his soft grey shirt – a size too small, in his opinion, not that he had any complaints, mind you – had ridden up, exposing a strip of skin to the delicate fingers of shadows cast by tree branches.The way he looked truly vulnerable, truly relaxed.

Since he had the time, he noticed the absences, too.His glasses, discarded in their now-usual spot: the table by the front door.His shoes, also by the door, and his socks, discarded on the floor.His armor of apathy and attitude, gradually shed as he grew used to domestic life in the cottage they now shared.

Some of his earliest memories were of war: blazing swords and celestial armies, following orders, leading others into battle.Ever since then, he had been fighting, trying to save the planet or accept cruel parts of God’s Plan or cut out feelings that were forbidden to him.He was not unused to quiet days, but the fact that this easy, simple calm belonged to both of them still left him breathless.

_I could walk over there and kiss him_ , Aziraphale thought, and the freedom of it was thrilling.For far too long, thoughts like that had terrified him, but it had finally sunk in that he had nothing to fear now.So, he did it: he crossed the room and stooped to press his lips to Crowley’s forehead.

At the touch, Crowley shifted, lifting his arm away from his eyes just enough for Aziraphale to see a sliver of golden yellow.“Hello there,” he said sleepily.

Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the sofa.“Having a snooze?”

“Nah, just watching telly.”

“I didn’t know you enjoyed cooking shows.”

Crowley’s eyes darted over to the screen with a guilty smirk.“I just like when the spiky-haired judge makes ‘em cry.”

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale chuckled.His book was waiting for him, but it could wait a little longer.“Scoot over,” he said as he nudged Crowley’s long legs out of the way and settled back against the cushions.“You know, you are terribly endearing when you’re ‘watching telly.’You even snore a little.”

Crowley quickly replaced his forearm over his eyes, but that didn’t hide the color that bloomed in his cheeks.“Shut up,” he muttered affectionately.By the next commercial break, he had drifted back to sleep.Aziraphale listened to Crowley’s breathing, tranquil and even, and watched the sunbeams skim their way over the drowsy room.He felt, for the first time, deeply at peace.


	13. lavender

They vacation in the South of France, when it’s all over.Crowley suggests a trip; Aziraphale picks the destination.They have never traveled together before, not really.This isn’t running into each other in the same town or taking a day’s drive in the Bentley.This is a week of sharing a car, sharing every meal, sharing a room.“One bed will be fine,” Aziraphale assures the man behind the hotel counter.“I won’t be using it.”But that first night finds him sitting back against the headboard while Crowley spreads out next to him under the covers, drinking a smooth, dark wine and laughing at a film Crowley picks for them to watch.When Crowley finally falls asleep, long after midnight, Aziraphale is still there, close enough to touch.

They visit the lavender fields at the Abbaye Notre-Dame de Sénanque.At least three times, Aziraphale warns him to behave: “The monks are kind enough to allow visitors.We must not disturb them.”As they tour the ancient, severe stone halls, Crowley wonders if any of these silent devotees have the slightest clue how close their God came to killing them all, to turning the same ground that gives them lavender and honey and shelter into a fiery no man’s land.No, if they knew, Crowley decides, they wouldn’t still be praying.

They’re not allowed to walk among the plants, but the latch on the gate is old and the staff is easily distracted.“We’re not hurting anything,” Crowley tempts, and Aziraphale follows him into the fields.The heady smell of the flowers envelopes them.They don’t speak, respecting the stillness of the land, but as they walk lazily down the rows of brilliant purple, he hears _thank you_ in the way Aziraphale’s eyes admire the beauty around them and then settle on his face for a long moment. _Thank you_ , he echoes back with the quirk of his mouth, the brush of his hand against Aziraphale’s. _Thank you for saving this for me._ Each pretends the lavender made it worthwhile.Neither is quite ready to admit they didn’t face destruction just for this world, as breath-taking as it may be.

They reach the end of a row and Aziraphale mentions a shop he spied inside the building.Before they leave the field, Crowley considers taking a snipping to plant back home, wanting a souvenir.He decides against it, knowing he’ll be returning with the one thing that truly matters, and leaves the lavender untouched.


	14. lightning

The thick night air hums with anticipation as he storms up the hill.Behind him, the Bentley waits for this to pass, headlights on, illuminating the side of the country road.He doesn’t know where he is – just that he’s somewhere in between the birthing hospital and London – and he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, tearing through the wild grass in the pitch dark. _Don’t know anything,_ he thinks, _except that I just tipped the first domino in the cursed line leading to the actual end of the entire world._

Rolling clouds sweep over the moon.Panic courses through him in waves.His hands shake, have been shaking since he left the convent.His human heart pounds, and though he can hear its pulse thundering in his head, he makes no effort to quiet it.Soon enough, he’ll be forced to abandon this heart and these hands and every part of this life.Might as well feel it all, even the overwhelming claustrophobia that forced him out of the Bentley and into a field in the middle of the night, while he still can.

_“Times are changing,”_ Hastur had said.They already are: Crowley can feel it in the air.A low rumbling, in the distance.Heat, unusual for the night, and pressure.Above him, particles collide, charging the clouds.Somewhere beyond, Heaven is sharpening its swords.Would Aziraphale join them?

As Crowley reaches the peak of the hill, he forces himself to consider that he might.Soldiers follow orders, after all.Angels do good, and Heaven decides what good is.Angels don’t rebel.The ones that do, they don’t stay angels for long.

Shivering despite the heat, he stares down at the jet-black space in front of him and digs within his memories for hope.A tartan thermos.A brush of fingers.A bag of books and clear blue eyes.An Arrangement, a secret gingerly cradled in soft hands.A sword, a wing, a laugh: unasked for, yet offered, and not without risk.

Beneath his feet, the earth pulses with energy.Hell will not hold back.If they win, no angel will be spared.

A closer rumbling gives warning.A cool wind blows.Rain begins to fall around him, the kind of sudden storm that summer always brings. _Maybe_ , he thinks, and that singular word ignites his mind and tears through him like wildfire. _I might be able to convince him.If I pull out all the stops._

A flash throws the valley into brilliant white: a bolt of lightning strikes a tree ahead of him.Some of the tension eases as the balance between the earth and sky returns.The rain calms.All it took was one spark, one bridge between the two realms, to dissipate the fury. _Maybe._ On unsteady legs, he returns to the Bentley, dries his hair and clothes, and pulls back onto the road that will lead him to London.“Call Aziraphale.”


	15. relax

_Warning: injury and descriptions of blood, but no character death_

“Relax.”

“Are you talking to me or him?” Crowley asked, glaring suspiciously at the horse.

“You. _She_ is perfectly calm.”Aziraphale, holding the reigns in one hand, stroked the horse’s muzzle to prove it.“But horses can sense a rider’s emotions.You mustn’t be so hostile.”

“Me, hostile?All I want is for her to take me from here to there without a problem.But no, she’ll refuse, like they all do.I’m not hostile.I’m concerned, and rightly so.Hate me, the lot of ‘em.You’ll see.”

With a raise of his eyebrows that Crowley knew meant _you’re being dramatic_ , Aziraphale said, “you have to learn sometime.It will drastically reduce your travel time, and it’s much more convenient than waiting for someone to escort you to and fro.Come on, give her a pat hello.”

Cautiously, Crowley approached with an outstretched hand.The horse stomped one foot and shook its head away from him.“See?” he exclaimed, making her take a step back.

Aziraphale frowned and said, “it’s okay, girl.He’s a friend.Well, not to me, of course, with him being–”He cleared his throat.“But he could be _your_ friend.It’s okay.Up you go,” and Crowley realized the last phrase and the extended hand were meant for him.

Holding his breath, he took Aziraphale’s hand, put one foot in the stirrups, and pushed himself up onto the horse’s back.It seemed to be working – the horse stood still, and they shared an optimistic glance as Aziraphale handed him the reigns – until Crowley nudged the horse with his heels and she panicked, rearing up, tossing him off, and bolting.The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and jarred his vision.With a groan, he sat up.“Told you– Oh.”A few feet away, Aziraphale was also struggling to sit up, and between the fingers of the hand pressed to the side of his head, blood was trickling down. 

“Oh, no, angel,” and Crowley stumbled over to kneel next to him, “don’t, don’t move.Shit.”Blood was pooling underneath Aziraphale’s head, a sickly halo.Despite the pain he must have been feeling, he smiled up at Crowley, eyes glassy.“What’re you smiling– Keep pressure on it, will you?”He added his hand on top of Aziraphale’s, placing his other one on the opposite side of his face to keep him still.To their right, he spied a rock with a reddened point.His mind raced as he searched for solutions: there really was only one.A demon couldn’t heal an angelic corporation.“Can you…?You know I can’t, I…”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said slowly.“I can heal it.It’ll just take… a moment.”

Crowley could sense a soothing heat beneath his hand, like the warmth of the summer sun on tanned skin.Feeling utterly useless, he rubbed his thumb in an arc across Aziraphale’s cheek and watched his eyes for signs of relief.“You’ve got it,” he whispered.“Almost there.”He hoped he wasn’t lying.If Aziraphale failed, he’d only be discorporated, not destroyed forever, but what if they didn’t send him back?The fear of being alone, the desperation that gripped his chest, the need to fix this pain that he had caused: Crowley stared down into those pale blue eyes and learned how much he had.How much he stood to lose.

Aziraphale flexed his fingers.“I think…”Crowley lifted his hand, and Aziraphale followed suit.Blood stained their palms and matted his hair down.With delicate fingers, Crowley felt for a break in the skin and found none.

“All fixed up,” he said softly.

Aziraphale sat up carefully, grimacing at the sight of his hand.“That was–”

“My fault.”

“No, not at all.I should’ve listened to you.And, you didn’t have to stay while I…”

As he trailed off, Crowley’s brow furrowed in concern.“Don’t mention it.You alright now?”

“Yes.Yes, just… still a bit in shock, I believe.”Aziraphale picked the blood out from underneath his fingernails, avoiding Crowley’s eyes.“You should go make your travel plans.Can’t be late for the job.”

“Can too.”The sudden, sweeping wave of intimacy, the pull of its withdrawal, had left him unmoored.Could he reach out and wipe the blood from his cheek?Could he touch his hand again?Could he, at least, stay a while longer?“You shouldn’t be left alone after a head wound.I’ll leave tomorrow.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, likely to protest against letting a demon watch over him, but then he seemed to reconsider.“Fine,” he sighed, and Crowley let his tense shoulders relax, feeling anchored again, at least for the night.


	16. garden

They’ve drank themselves into a silence, the fact of their inevitable doom hovering in the dust-speckled air.If the humans knew they’d just entered “the end times,” Crowley felt certain they’d be partying in the streets – checking items off those bucket lists of theirs, kissing strangers and robbing banks and jetting off to sunny beaches – but he simply wanted to sit in the bookshop and wallow in his miserable failure until they dragged him down to Hell.Head in his hand, he swirled the whiskey in his glass and wondered how he’d managed to lead them so far down the wrong road.

“Do you know,” Aziraphale started quietly, “what happened to the Garden, in the end?”

He didn’t.Job done, he’d had no reason to linger.He had turned his back to the high stone walls and ventured out, interested to see what else the planet had to offer.A part of him had hoped the angel would follow.Perhaps that’s where their cursed journey began.

He shook his head.

“Destroyed. In the flood.”Aziraphale cleared his throat.Crowley forced himself to tear his eyes away from his glass, to take in the ancient despair etched into the lines of Aziraphale’s face.“It stood empty for a while.They brought sacrifices to it, sometimes, hoping for grace or mercy.And then She wiped it all away.”

Of course.Like a slate, as if the humans and the animals and plants, all the living things on Earth, were just a misspelled word.An error in arithmetic.He closed his eyes and remembered the chill in the wind when the clouds rolled in, the patter of the rain on the dry earth.How Aziraphale had mourned for years, a hardened edge to his smile.This time, there would be no chance to mourn, to rebuild.This time, they would drown, too.

Something brushed against the cold fingers he had wrapped around his glass.He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale’s hand withdrawing from his.“Crowley,” he said gently, “what do we do now?”

_Wait for the storm clouds,_ he thought, but then he met Aziraphale’s gaze and reconsidered.“We’ll finish this whiskey.Sober up.And come up with something.Something brilliant.And something that’ll work, preferably, this time.”

A burst of laughter and the clinking of glasses.“I’ll drink to that.”


	17. road trip

“It hasn’t even been half an hour,” he protested as he slowed the Bentley to a stop.

“Yes, but I barely had time to eat a proper breakfast.Since someone decided to sleep in, it took all morning for me to finish packing.”

“Could’ve miracled your books packed and had all the time in the world to eat, but no, you–”

“I’ll pop in and out.Won’t take more than a minute.”

With the close of the Bentley’s door, one of the impossible number of boxes piled on the back seat shifted.Crowley glared at it in the rearview mirror. _Don’t you dare_ , he thought.It didn’t.

The bright sunlight made it difficult to see into the windows of the café Aziraphale had entered.He hoped he’d be quick.He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.It felt freeing to have London – its rush, its noise, its ghosts – behind them, but ahead lay a cottage in which Crowley had relocated all his hopes, for better or worse.Aziraphale hadn’t seen it yet.Despite his assurances that he trusted Crowley’s judgement, that he didn’t care where they lived as long as it was somewhere peaceful and new, he could be particular, and Crowley couldn’t help but worry.After all, he’d practically perfected the art.

Interrupting his thoughts, Aziraphale climbed back into the car, hands full.“Here,” he said, holding out a cup to Crowley.“Thought you could use a cup of tea.”

As the car sped back onto the road, Crowley waited for a comment about his one-handed driving ( _Did you forget this isn’t a mini-van?No cupholders, and don’t you go making any._ ) but Aziraphale was far too distracted by the contents of a paper bag.

“Watch the crumbs.” 

“Any proper road trip needs to have snacks.”

“Not sure an hour’s drive quite counts as a road trip.”Aziraphale ignored him, happily chewing a bite of croissant.Over the background noise of Chopin’s Op. 10, “I Want to Break Free,” Crowley heard a familiar melody.“Are you humming something?”

“Do you know it?”

The humming grew louder, and Crowley had to laugh.“‘On the Road Again’?Really?”Pleased with himself, Aziraphale nodded.“How do you even know that song?”

“I heard it on a restaurant’s radio one day.Thought it had a lovely optimism to it.And then it stuck in my head for long enough that I finally had to give in and buy the album.”

The thought of Aziraphale purchasing a Willie Nelson record spread his grin even wider.“It’s not a bad song,” he conceded.

“Captures the spirit of such a journey quite nicely, I think.Adventure.Freedom.Companionship.”He popped the last bite of croissant into his mouth and looked out the window, watching the other cars pass by.

“If Willie Nelson managed to make you optimistic about my driving, I suppose I owe him a thank you.”

“To be fair, the destination has more to do with it than Mr. Nelson’s songwriting abilities,” Aziraphale said to the window.

Crowley’s hand relaxed a little on the wheel.He sipped his tea, still smiling.When the humming resumed, Crowley tried to remember the words: something about friends, and the world turning our way.He pictured the cottage that was waiting for them, its charming warmth and sprawling green spaces, and imagined he could feel the world turning under the Bentley’s wheels, realigning itself in their favor with each mile marker they passed by.


	18. berries

The first fruit reddens early that second summer.He’d planted them on a whim, one of many quiet guesses in a year spent discovering new ways to tease a smile onto Aziraphale’s lips.Living together – with no rules, no expectations save their own – had opened a door that had been locked for six thousand years. 

Behind it lay secrets Crowley savored: _the way he hums while baking.The way he kisses goodnight and good morning.The way his eyes shine when he talks to the neighbors about “our home.”_ Crowley singles out each new experience, turning it over in his mind for days.He’ll never feel deserving, never know what he did right to wind up here, but he’s learned not to stare for too long or the shine of it spots his vision and leaves him dizzy.

One sunny June afternoon, as he’s pruning a particularly stubborn lilac, Aziraphale wanders over.“You planted raspberries?” he asks.Crowley can tell from the bounce of his voice that the question is rhetorical.“They’re divine.Try one.” 

Stained fingers push a berry into his open mouth, and he catches Aziraphale’s hand before it retreats, pressing his lips to the ripe-red thumb. _The way his cheeks flush the color of the first raspberries._ “Delicious.”


	19. independence

“So, what is all the fuss about, exactly?”

Eyebrow raised, Crowley watches him push a bite of crêpe around his plate, soaking up extra sauce.“ _Fuss_?They’re decapitating dozens of people a day.I would say it’s much more than a fuss.”As he chews, Aziraphale gives a conciliatory nod.“And how do you not know this?You live just across the pond.Don’t you read the papers?Thought all you did these days was read.”

He huffs, unamused.“I have been preparing to open a place of business.That sort of venture occupies a great deal of one’s time.” _Not that you’d know.Still renting barely-furnished rooms in ten different cities, are we?_

Draining the last drops of cider from his glass, Crowley reclines in his seat.“It started off nice enough.A fight for freedom, equality, natural rights.Somehow it devolved to this mess.Shame.Though I can’t say I didn’t appreciate the commendation.”

“Natural rights?”

“Rights they’re born with.Owning property.Liberty.Standing up against oppression.”

“Hm.”He tries to wrap his mind around the idea that one could be entitled to these freedoms simply for being created.Someone had to give you those rights, then, at birth.Did they think God was granting each newborn freedoms they hadn’t even known to wish for yet?It simply didn’t work that way.Not to say that these liberties were an unworthy goal: they just weren’t guarantees, and they couldn’t come without a price.“Sounds like the Americans.”

“Yeah, they’re all…”He waves a hand in the air as he searches for the words.“Encouraging each other.Trading ideas.It spreads easily enough.Who wouldn’t want more freedom, right?”Behind his glasses, his golden eyes flick up to meet Aziraphale’s, expectant.

 _That’s what everyone thinks at first,_ he wants to say.He is not immune to the siren song of independence. _What if, today, I could do anything I pleased?_ His eyes shy away from Crowley’s. _And when tomorrow comes?When you grow tired of the instability?When the decisions you were free to make catch up with you?When the tide turns and the sea is stained with blood and the current sweeps you under?Would you still value the freedom to swim?_

“Freedom comes at a price, as they’re discovering,” he says, words bitter on his tongue.A medicine he chokes down out of self-preservation.Crowley’s eyes narrow.“Speaking of, after today, I imagine you have a temptation in mind you’d like me to do, as repayment.”He tries to smile, look appreciative and willing.

He’s surprised when Crowley shakes his head.“Nah,” he says quietly.“On the house.”


	20. solstice

“Today is the longest day of the year, you know.”

That must be why the park seems to be lazily stretched out before them, like a cat in a sunbeam.A mother takes pictures as her daughters play among the flowers.A couple has spread a blanket out and brought a picnic; they feed each other strawberries and laugh at stories no one else can hear.A man strolls by with a dog, pausing to watch the sunlight paint colors on the water.No one is in a hurry.They have all the time in the world today.

Only Aziraphale and Crowley, sitting on their usual bench in their usual way, know that expression may mean something very different these days.They would hurry if there was anything they could hurry toward, but you can’t rush a birthday, can’t wish a boy older than he is.Especially when that boy is who he is.

So they have to wait it out.When Aziraphale speaks, his words are measured; his voice, clipped.Crowley can’t pretend any longer, can’t turn to him and smile and say something mundane back.If he opens his mouth, he just might scream at them all: Aziraphale, the picnickers, the god who made this plan and then stopped listening, leaving them to navigate this maze in the dark.In response, then, he offers a “hmm,” eyes on the ducks at the water’s edge.

“It certainly feels like it, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale asks, expecting no answer.Without looking, Crowley can tell he’s twisting his ring between his fingers.He wishes he could calm his hands, but nothing he could say would be enough.Anything he’d do could end them both.He leaves the question floating there in the still summer air.It’ll still be there when the sun finally sets.


	21. trail

“I noticed…”

His voice sloshes across the stuffy bookshop air and pours itself into Crowley’s ears, jarring him out of his staring contest with a knot in a floorboard.“Hm?” Crowley asks, rolling over onto his side and wincing at the way the room continues tumbling after his body stills.

Slouched in his armchair, Aziraphale takes another careful sip of wine.“You added a… an item.A picture.To my machine.”

“What machine?”

“You know,” and he points an unsteady finger at his computer.

“Ah,” Crowley says.“Got bored.Waiting for you.”The couch is warm and soft.He flops back down on his belly, forehead resting on his arm so he can breathe.He could fall asleep right there: he has before, and likely will again, in an hour or so.“Not a picture,” and he laughs into the cushion, imagining a baffled Aziraphale staring at the icon, the first new program on his computer since he bought it.

“Well, whatever it is.Amuse yourself some other way, dear–”He hiccups.“I can’t have you– I need it to work.For my taxes.If you break it–”

“Won’t break it.’s a game.”He props his chin up on his hand.“Trail… something.You’re a settler, traveling the trail, trying to be the last one alive at the end of the journey.”

Brow furrowed, Aziraphale processes his words.“The goal of the game is to survive at the expense of the others in your party?”

“If everyone else gets dysentery or cholera or drowns, but you make it, you win.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Fun,” Crowley corrects him, grinning.“You should play.”

“Why would anyone create such a violent task… and call it a game?”

“Oregon!”

“What’s that?”

“Oregon Trail.Based on the real thing.Not made up.”

“Oh.”Aziraphale sits quietly for long enough that Crowley lets his eyelids fall closed, then he starts to chuckle to himself.

“Wha’s so funny?”

“Back… then,” he pauses to finish his glass, “I was meant to go.The whole frontier, and the gold, was our business, apparently.Providing an opportunity to pull oneself up from nothing, if one just worked hard enough and had a taste for… adventure.Head Office said– well, I didn’t have to set it up, but after a few years, they asked for a report.How it was going.”

“In America?”Wide-eyed, Crowley stared at him.“They wanted you to go?Get in a covered wagon with those boots and a… what did they call ‘em, those big hats?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he grimaced.“But yes, they wanted me to go.”

Crowley erupts in laughter, bursting the bubble of drowsy peace, and Aziraphale can’t help but join in, his empty glass shaking in his loose grip.“How’d you manage,” Crowley forces out, wiping his eyes, “to get out of that one?”

“Who’s to say I did?Perhaps I went, and traversed the wild ex…panses with my oxen and big hat and–”Unable to keep a straight face, he gives up.“Alright, no, I didn’t go.I strongly suggested that traveling the Wild… the frontier would be a perfect training exercise for some others who hadn’t been on Earth for centuries.Gabriel had said he might want more than one of us – of me, living here, making lighter work and so forth, so I encouraged him to use that job as a, well, trial of sorts.”

Crowley’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds.“You convinced them to send other angels instead?”

Aziraphale sniffs.“I proposed the idea.Trying to be helpful, think outside the box.”

“And?”

“They tried it out.It… did not go well.At all.Loads of paperwork.”

“Shocker,” Crowley laughs.“Bet they caused all sorts of chaos, first time on Earth and faced with all that mess.”

“Yes, well… Perhaps they were a bit unprepared.”No doubt remembering the stories he’d heard of rattlesnakes and violent bar fights and river crossings gone wrong, Aziraphale studies his empty cup for a long moment, then smiles, a devious spark in his eyes.“I suppose I won the game, though.”


	22. melting

He leans over, reaches a hand out across the table.“You’ll never believe the trouble I had, getting back to you– to Tadfield,” he starts.His cheeks are flushed, he knows: it’s warm for a London summer day, and the Ritz feels comfortably toasty.The champagne doesn’t help, bubbling straight to his head, rose-tinting everything around them.And Crowley is right there beside him – like always, and yet, closer than before – close enough to touch if he dared, emanating heat like no one so slim and still has any right to.“I bounced all over before finding Madame Tracy.Africa.America.I was on television!”

Crowley laughs into his champagne flute, and behind his glasses, his eyes crease at the corners and Aziraphale laughs, too.Not at himself, but at the sudden relief he finds in speaking of something that, just yesterday, could have ended him, but now lies, defanged and disarmed, in their wake.They’ve won. _I almost lost you forever,_ he thinks, watching Crowley set his glass down. _You’ll never know what it took for me to leave there, to come back.I feared I’d never find you again.But now, here we are._

Something gives in his posture.Something that used to keep him frozen in place is beginning to melt away, letting him do this: he leans in closer, reaches a hand out farther, sets it gently on top of Crowley’s hand. _Here we are._


	23. firefly

_“Hush - I know they said the end is near, but I’m still on my tallest tiptoes, spinning in my highest heels, love, shining just for you.”_

_-_ Taylor Swift, “Mirrorball”

Carrying faint tones of music and laughter, the summer evening breeze swept across the vast expanses of the Dowling’s gardens and past the patio of the gardener’s quarters, making Aziraphale shiver.He should call it a night.It had to be past ten o’clock.As he watched partygoers in suits and gowns trickle out of the enormous tent set up on the lawn, shouting their goodbyes as they headed to their cars, he tried to think of anything but the conversation he had just had with Gabriel.

_We have been preparing, Aziraphale.The boy is who he is.Nothing can change that.Your efforts are all well and good, but when they fail, we will be ready to fight._

He sighed into the heavy air, nervous hands picking at the leaves of a shrub that needed trimming anyway.Perhaps Gabriel was right.They did only have a month left: Mrs. Dowling had decided 10 was old enough to do without a nanny, and fair play meant he would resign from his position, too.After that, a year of waiting.Perhaps the last year on Earth for any of them.Warlock, his parents, all these generous donors invited to tonight’s benefit event, the fireflies flickering on the edge of the distant woods, the flowers that had closed their buds for the night: all would be destroyed if he failed.On nights like this, he could feel himself about to crumble under the constant weight of it.

Just as he decided to turn in, hoping he could focus enough to read, a familiar silhouette appeared in the door of the tent, surrounded by the party’s amber glow.A man’s shadow sidled up next to her.She leaned over to whisper something in his ear, and the man immediately bolted out of the tent and into the darkness.He couldn’t help but chuckle.The woman waved farewell and left, vanishing into the night.

Would it be this way, in the end?One final glimpse of Crowley in the distance, too far to hear any last words he had to offer, and then an empty space where he had been?Or would he last see him on the battlefield, armed and bloodied, both of them emptied of who they had become until they were mere vessels for the fury of Heaven and Hell?

A rhythmic clicking shook him from paralyzing thoughts.He turned to see the flash of a pale leg appearing from a long slit in a midnight black gown.Then Nanny slid out of the shadows.“Who are you, and what are you doing in Francis’ quarters?” she asked playfully.He realized he’d been too distracted to put back on his Francis appearance.

“I’m not the only one who looks quite different tonight.”

The corners of her mouth tugged upwards.“Even a nanny should be allowed a little fun at _the_ charity event of the summer, right?”She leaned back against the patio fence, revealing silver stiletto heels that wound their way up her ankles.Around her neck hung a thin chain of matching silver.Aziraphale knew he was staring, but he found the distraction so welcoming that he almost didn’t care if she noticed.“You were summoned?” she asked, dropping her Nanny accent.

 _We have been preparing…_ He nodded, tearing his eyes away from her.

“And?”

“Nothing new,” he said quietly.“Just the usual reminder that they–Well, they don’t have much confidence in my efforts.”

“Eh, what do they know?I can tell you, with certainty, he’s not properly evil, just based on tonight.”Aziraphale shot her a curious glance.“Had to point out to him myself that it would be just awful if something spilled on the dance floor.His mum’s been practicing with me for days now, brushing up on her dancing, and he almost let her make it through the evening without incident.Disgraceful.”

A tiny light of hope flickered to life in his chest.He could feel its warmth, faint but there, just as he could feel Crowley’s presence as she clicked closer to him.It was enough.It had to be.“I’m sorry– You’ve been giving Mrs. Dowling dancing lessons?”

She shrugged.“Just the basics.Nothing complicated.”

“I didn’t know you could actually dance.”

“Course I can,” and with a wicked grin, she grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and stepped in close.“Need proof?”

Four seconds passed before he could attempt an answer.“I… Yes,” he laughed, stunned by the nearness of her face, the touch of her hand on his shoulder, “proper dancing?Not whatever thrashing they do in those rock concert halls you used to frequent?I don’t believe it.”

“Well, if you’d like to see, you have to put your hand on my back.Do _you_ know how to do this?”

He shook himself and placed his hand on the small of her back.“I’ll admit I’m not as practiced in this style as in others.” _And you’re terribly distracting_.

They began to move, a little clumsily at first, taking turns stepping on each other’s toes, laughing and apologizing.After a few beats, they fell into a rhythm, a simple slow sway to the muffled music coming from the tent.“Told you,” she whispered, and there was more than dancing in those words. _I told you we could fight it.I told you to have hope.I told you they underestimate you.I told you I’d be here.I told you what we could be, how I see you._ _I told you who you really are._

As the light caught her glasses, her earrings, her necklace, her smile, she shone, chasing away the darkness that had nearly consumed him.“That you did,” he admitted quietly.“Thank you for correcting me.”


	24. petrichor

In the calmness of the year after, London should have bloomed for them.Their city – saved, in part (however small) by them – should have blossomed with colors and opportunities they’d never seen before, now that they had the time to explore them all together.Instead, it seemed to wilt, to shrivel away into the dry dirt beneath their feet.Crowley could not shake the sound of pages burning, could not stop tasting smoke in every glass of wine he downed in those late nights in the bookshop.A walk in the park left Aziraphale strangely quiet.Eventually, Crowley realized he had fallen silent at the spot where they had been captured for their trials; he avoided that side of the park from then on. _Give it time,_ he thought.But when Spring came again and nothing was reborn, he knew it was time to stop living in ash and dust, hoping the drought would end.They had to let London go.

That first morning in their new home, he awoke to the drumming of rain on the tin roof.When he padded into the living room, Aziraphale glanced up from his book with a warm smile.“Good morning.How did you sleep?”

“Like the dead.”

“I made tea.I’m afraid it might be a little chilly today, and far too wet for you to go exploring like you hoped.”

Crowley eyed the steaming mug that was waiting for him.With a dismissive wave of his hand, he headed for the door.

“Bring an umbrella, at least!” Aziraphale called after him.

Sheltered from the rain by the canopy that extended over their front steps, Crowley watched the drops shake the petals of their flowering pear trees and pool in puddles along their stone driveway.The earth, dry for so long, could not absorb them all, though it desperately needed water.In deep inhales, he breathed in the petrichor of the storm, the relief of green things struggling to stay alive, gifted a summer rain.

He heard Aziraphale slip through the door behind him.“I’m sorry it’s not a better day for adventuring.” 

The mug he had ignored earlier appeared in front of his chest.He took it, cradling it in both hands, letting the warmth from the tea and Aziraphale’s presence behind him sink in to his core.“I think it’s just the sort of day we needed.”


	25. ice

“Not sure if you have quite enough copies of that one, angel.”

They were unpacking their books in their new study.Or, rather, Aziraphale was unpacking his books, and Crowley was supervising from a worn armchair, a glass of wine cradled in one hand.It was slow going, with Aziraphale pausing every few volumes to consider the shelves, adjust his organization slightly, search through the boxes for a certain title.Crowley didn’t mind: he had nowhere else to be, nothing better to do than watch Aziraphale work and offer commentary.

“Enough copies?Of _The Divine Comedy_?” Aziraphale asked incredulously.“Why, it’s only one of humanity’s most impressive works on the subject of the soul’s journey into the afterlife.I can’t imagine why it would strike my fancy.”

Crowley pulled a face in response to the sarcasm.“I never got why you want to read about work.And you know what Heaven actually looks like.I’m sure they didn’t get it right.”

“I find it fascinating to consider how humans imagine it.”He set another copy on the shelf next to the others.“Did you know he wrote that the deepest circle of Hell was a frozen lake, with the sinners forever trapped in the ice?A highly unique vision, considering how most picture eternal flames to be a much more torturous fate.”

Fire, or ice?Without inviting them, memories of smoke and heat and flames spark and catch in his mind.The gnashing sound of books being eaten by fire.The rush of hot air and ash.The sting of it in his lungs.The muffled name he had screamed, swallowed by destruction’s roar.The moment he had sat there, fire licking at his skin, and wished it could consume him, too.

“Ice?” the bartender had asked as Crowley ripped the bottle from his hand and stumbled to the nearest empty table.Smoke had clung to his hair and clothes, but he was shivering.The whiskey had burned his throat a moment, but then the cold had returned.Numb.Without him, what was there to feel?To do?Frozen with irrevocable loss, he would sit and drink and run out the Earthly clock, knowing all that waited for him was more time to waste, alone.

Just as he had done that day, Aziraphale appeared before him.“So sorry,” he whispered, crouching down to meet Crowley’s glassy stare.“I wasn’t thinking.That was callous of me.”He laid a hand on Crowley’s arm.“Are you–”

“I’m okay,” Crowley assured him.“I’m fine.And, ice.Ice is worse.Your book got that right.”

Aziraphale frowned, clearly wanting to understand but knowing better than to press him.After a quiet minute, an idea came to him.“The rest of these can wait until you’ve gone to bed.As way of an apology, I’ll watch that film you mentioned yesterday, if you’d like.”

“You’re going to hate it,” Crowley smirked.

Standing, Aziraphale kissed the top of his head and walked toward the door.“I know, but it’ll be worth the suffering to cheer you up.Come on.”With a laugh, Crowley followed.


	26. dandelion

He stood there until the sun had finished setting.In his breathless stillness, he sensed the movements of the cotton-candy clouds.Felt the electric hum of the lamps that lined the park’s walkways.Heard the dandelions, who knew the time for wishing had passed, rustle as they closed up their buds against the chill of the summer night.No humans ventured close.Instinct whispered in their ears, telling them to avoid the old bandstand. _Turn away._

Though he had watched Crowley stalk off until he was out of sight, his voice still rang in his ears as he replayed their conversation endlessly. _“We’re on our side,”_ he had said, as if Aziraphale had simply forgotten.He knew his answer, his pitiful _“not anymore,”_ had been inadequate, at best.

But could he ever say _It wasn’t enough.You have to see that, too._ (Would Crowley interrupt here?Insist he didn’t see? Didn’t accept it?) _We tried.We fought the nature of the universe, built our own world out of piles of chipped church stones and emptied wine bottles and wishes.You were so patient with me.We were so close.And when they threatened it, we did everything we could to keep it from collapsing.But it wasn’t enough._

 _“It’s over.”_ He pressed a hand to his mouth.Standing in the blood-stained ruins of the barricades, the barrel of the king’s rifle digging at your spine, what sense was there in speaking of the revolution?

Working within the system was the only hope left.He still held one card: Tadfield.If he could convince Gabriel – if it still meant something to be on the side of the angels – then it could still be stopped.Could they rebuild what had already been demolished? _Doesn’t matter_ , he told himself as he turned away from the empty air and started down the steps. _I’ll be lucky enough if I can keep him here on Earth, away from any battlefield.Even if he never talks to me again._ The day before the end of the world, he didn’t dare wish for anything more.


	27. marshmallow

Aziraphale was reading.This did not surprise him in the least.In fact, Crowley suspected that, if he had a pound for each hour Aziraphale had spent reading in the year and half they’d been living together, he could block up the drain in the town’s fountain quite nicely. 

Normally, it didn’t bother him at all.He had plenty of work to do in the garden; he had all the best cable channels and the fastest internet on the planet.He didn’t need someone to entertain him every minute of the day.However, yesterday, he had been promised a trip to the seaside, and he wasn’t about to let Aziraphale forget it.

He slipped into the study, smiling at the sight that greeted him.The morning sun warmly illuminated the book spines and well-loved furniture and Aziraphale’s perfectly still figure.Light reflected off his reading glasses and gold rings.Even though this picture was so familiar, he felt overwhelmingly lucky, in that moment, to have it there before him. 

Captivated by his book, Aziraphale didn’t even look up as Crowley perched on the arm of his chair.“Angel,” he said in a singsong lilt.“Beach time.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale agreed without moving.“I haven’t forgotten.Let me just… finish this chapter.”

“Knew you’d say that.”He carefully lifted his legs, one after the other, and laid them across Aziraphale’s lap, just underneath his book.Rule #1 stated _one should not interrupt reading time_ , he knew, but he also knew what they say about rules.Aziraphale’s blue eyes traced the long lines of his legs, then snapped back up to the page.Progress, however small.

“I’ll just wait here.”Settling in, he reached behind him and grabbed the mug of cocoa from the end table.As he brought it to his lips, he noticed white puffs.“Marshmallows?”

“Hm?”

“Since when do you take marshmallows in your cocoa?”When the question went unanswered, he reached his fingers in and plucked one from the cup.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale noticed and winced.“Must you?”

Crowley popped the marshmallow into his mouth and laughed.“It’s what you get for ignoring me.Close the book, or the rest of them will meet the same dark fate.”

Aziraphale turned the page, eyes narrowed in unamused concentration.

This act, this chess game of tempting and resisting, was as ancient as they were and yet never grew old.Crowley considered his next move for a moment, then said, “If we leave soon–” he paused to lick his fingers, pleased to notice Aziraphale’s gaze drift from the page to his lips – “we could stop at that café you like for brunch.”

“At this rate, it’ll be dinnertime before I’m finished with this paragraph.”

He leaned in closer, dipping fingertips into the airy white curls of Aziraphale’s hair.“Best save it for later, then.When you’re not so… distracted.”

“Or, my distraction could kindly hold his tongue for five minutes and earn my undivided attention for the remainder of the day.”

_Check._ With a pout, Crowley leaned back and returned his attention to the cocoa.He fished another marshmallow out.Had Aziraphale’s tastes changed?He’d always liked his sweets, but he was also a creature of habit.He tossed the puff of sugar into his mouth and looked down at the last one floating in the cup.Maybe the safe haven of their cottage was fostering self-indulgence. _Good,_ he thought. _You deserve everything.Any desire, met._

So Crowley waited patiently until Aziraphale closed his book.Then, he picked out the last marshmallow and held it out to him.“Saved it for you.”

“ _My_ marshmallow, from _my_ cocoa?How very kind of you,” he quipped.He couldn’t hold the act for long; he broke out in a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Hush up,” Crowley said, pushing the marshmallow into Aziraphale’s open mouth.A second later, Aziraphale cupped his jaw with one hand and pulled his face down until their lips met, soft and sticky sweet.With a hum of contentment, he slid down the arm of the chair and onto Aziraphale’s lap.Two years ago, he could have hardly touched his hand without losing him to fear, to _“it’s getting late”_ or _“I should go.”_ Now, he parted his lips for him, inviting.Crowley tasted sugar and chocolate on his tongue.When Aziraphale pulled back, he was left breathless, wanting more.

“About the beach,” Aziraphale began.

“It can wait,” Crowley said quickly.

“Oh, it can?”His eyes glimmered, pupils wide.“Just ten minutes ago, it seemed as if the world would end if we didn’t leave that second.”

“First off, that shouldn’t scare either of us.Already stopped that once.Second, the beach’ll be there tomorrow.”

“As will I,” he said softly.

_Want you more,_ Crowley answered in the urgent press of his lips.It seemed they had, somehow, both won the morning’s game: time to indulge in the victory. The seaside would wait.


	28. swim

_(A sort of follow-up to the previous piece, "marshmallow": Crowley gets his day at the beach.)_

“Come swim,” Crowley said with a squeeze of his hand.

“But we just got all settled in.”

“The sandwiches’ll be here after, and besides, you’re not supposed to swim after eating.Better to go first.Now.”

Aziraphale sighed, staring at the cooler.“Fine, alright.You go ahead.I’ll catch up.”

With a quick kiss, Crowley tugged his shirt over his head, ran a hand through his shoulder-length curls, and took off toward the water.From his beach chair, Aziraphale watched him stalk toward the waves.His fascination with water had been one of those few secrets Crowley had tried to keep from him for the longest time.Aziraphale had quietly collected the hints – mentions of merchant ships, the meeting places always on the water’s edge, comments about sirens and red skies, the meditative expression he’d catch on his face when Aziraphale arrived second to St. James’ – and pieced them together.

Crowley stepped in up to his knees, turned, and waved him over.“Just a moment,” he called.

He hadn’t actually seen him swim until they moved close to the coast.He’d seen him soaked to the bone from rain, back before he started miracling himself dry during storms.He’d seen him wade in rivers, long ago, and splash through puddles.Each time, the thought flashed through his mind: _it could destroy you._ Then, the flood of relief when it didn’t.Holy water was, after all, not that easy to come by, as Crowley had discovered.Still, Aziraphale tended to stay away from fires he had not set himself.An over-abundance of caution.Something, he supposed, Crowley had never possessed.

The muscles in his back rippled as he pushed his way past the breaking waves, bent, and dove into the sea.

It had shocked him, that Crowley swam as if he’d been made for the ocean.Still in awe, Aziraphale watched his red hair break the surface and begin gliding toward the horizon, arms and legs moving with coordinated ease. 

Aziraphale recalled overhearing a customer say the best way to teach someone to swim was to push them in and let them figure it out.Perhaps Crowley had known this, too.Forced himself to wade in, one early day when Aziraphale had been a thousand miles away, and learn to keep his head above water in a world that seemed intent on drowning those like him.Eventually, fear must have become respect, and then love.

It warmed something in him, to think that Crowley’s days of fighting to stay afloat, alone, were over.He slipped his shoes off and stood.The way the waves pulled Crowley toward them, Crowley pulled him toward the shore, unable to say no to the cold water when he was waiting for him.

Knowing Aziraphale wasn’t a strong swimmer, Crowley had returned to hover just beyond the peaks of the waves.Aziraphale inched his way in, grimacing at the chill in the water.Suddenly, a deceptively strong wave hit him, and he lost his balance, falling back with a shout.A second later, hands were lifting him back to his feet.“Careful,” Crowley said.“You alright?”

“Yes.Thank you.”Another wave pushed Crowley forward into him, and he stayed close as it retreated.Wild wet hair clinging to his face, he flashed a grin that called to mind a pirate from some old illustration. _Wouldn’t put it past him_.Aziraphale would ask him later.Now, in the push-pull of the ocean waves, he kissed his cheek.His pale skin tasted like the sea.


	29. fireworks

“Trust me,” he whispers, and Aziraphale does, lets himself be pulled into a side door and up flight after flight of stairs.They dead-end into a door that Crowley kicks open and enter someone’s rooftop garden. _We shouldn’t be here,_ he almost says.But Crowley’s eyes are sparkling behind his glasses, and his hand is tugging him down a row of flowering plants, and he forgets himself in the view of the city waiting for him just ahead: all of London spread out before them, twinkling and alive.

He steps forward to the concrete parapet.“Simply stunning,” he says.Crowley, who is looking at him and not the city, nods.His heart is pounding, and only partially from the climb up to the roof. _Do it,_ he thinks, and then the wave of guilt washes over him, the one that has been pushing him back into the past ever since that evening at the bandstand months ago. _What if you haven’t been forgiven yet?Don’t be presumptuous.Let him lead._

A cannon fires.A trail of golden light streams up into the night sky from the direction of Battersea Park.As it slows, it explodes into red and gold bursts.The sound of it, a second delayed, breaks through the biting autumn air and echoes off the buildings of the city.Crowley inches closer; their shoulders touch.“Remember, remember,” Aziraphale recites.

As a trio of silver lines arc their way into the air, Crowley says under his breath, “Enough of that.I’m so sick of the sodding past.Let’s look to the future, instead.”

_Mine is you.Do you know that?Can I show you?_ Before he loses his nerve, he turns Crowley away from the skyline with a hand on his shoulder, closes his eyes, and kisses him. _See?_ The darkness crackles with brilliant colors, and Crowley doesn’t hesitate, desperate hands rushing to his neck and pressing him closer.Another explosion thunders through the air. 

When he pulls back, opens his eyes, the bright lights of the fireworks are dancing across Crowley’s dark lenses.Underneath, his yellow eyes are wide and hopeful.One of them laughs – a breathless, giddy sound – and the other echoes him, and then Crowley’s lips return to his.It feels so much like coming home that he can’t recall why he’d ever held himself back. _Yes, we’ve done enough remembering._ In the warmth of Crowley’s chest against his, in Crowley’s hands on his hips and in his hair, as the sky erupts with flashing beauty, he feels the dazzling promise of tomorrow.


	30. stargazing

That night in 2010, Aziraphale watched them study the stars from across the garden.

“Wha’s that?”

“You’d call that the Big Dipper,” Nanny answered, following Warlock’s pointed finger up to the sky, “but here, we call it the Plough.”

“That?”

“That’s Arcturus.See how bright it is?”

“Where is it?”

Nanny gave him a smile and shifted him to her other hip.Wishing he could walk over and join them, knowing he shouldn’t, Aziraphale leaned forward in the chair outside the door of his quarters.They had to pretend – couldn’t be seen together too often, even just by Warlock, or word would spread through the staff and, the next thing they knew, their jobs would be on the line – but Crowley had taken to finding creative excuses to spend time in the gardens with the child.Even though it meant enduring yet another level of surveillance, he would not have traded the chance to see her every day for the world: and he shouldn’t have to, if all went as planned.

“Arcturus is up in the sky, dear.Far, far away from Earth.Though not as far as many of the other stars.”

“We go?”

She laughed, and across the darkened field, Aziraphale laughed, too.“Go to the stars?”He could have sworn her eyes flickered over to his face.Her smile held back secrets.“We’d need very strong wings for that, my love.”She pulled him closer to her.“Time for bed.Perhaps you can dream yourself up a pair.”She lingered a moment, taking one last look at the night sky before heading back toward the house.

As the shadows swallowed her figure, he thought: if there were a place where no one was watching, where no one cared how close they stood or how often they talked or how brightly his eyes lit up when Crowley entered any room, perhaps that place was somewhere off among the stars.Perhaps, some day, they’d go dare to go there.

That night in 2018, Aziraphale stood a foot from him on his balcony, head tilted up.Clouds whispered their way across the night sky, thin enough that the stars could peek through them.“You should try to sleep,” he said gently.Even he felt tired from the whirlwind of the past few days.“Don’t need to deprive yourself on my account.”

“I could never sleep like this.Too wired.”Crowley rubbed his eyes, smearing the soot that had stuck to his face.Aziraphale wanted to miracle his skin clean with a touch of his fingertips, but he doubted Crowley would let him.“And it’s almost morning anyway.”

Was it really?In the night’s fatigued silences and wild brainstorming, in between the practices and briefings – “ _Beez hates it when I make small talk”; “Gabriel will have heard about the possession by now, no need to hide it”; “the one with the scaly fish face is Dagon"_ – he had completely lost track of the time.He checked his pocket watch: 4:37.He knew he should suggest they switch corporations once more, go their separate ways before the sunrise, but he so desperately wanted to remain in Crowley’s orbit that he couldn’t force out the words.“Aren’t the stars lovely tonight?” he managed instead.

Something sharp (anger or regret or pain, he couldn’t tell) flashed in Crowley’s eyes.Afraid it would return and settle there, Aziraphale turned his gaze to the sky, nerves ragged, heart beating too fast.The sky was beginning to lighten; it was almost time. _Will this even work?_ The stars blinked silently, offering no wisdom or comfort.One cluster of them, he wasn’t sure which, must be Alpha Centauri. _If we make it through whatever they have planned for us,_ he promised Crowley silently, _you’ll see why staying put was worth it.And I’ll spend eternity apologizing for not trusting you enough to go anyway, the second you asked me to._

“We should get a move on,” Crowley said, holding out his hand.“Ready?”

With a fragile smile, he answered, “as I’ll ever be,” and grasped Crowley’s hand.

That night in 2029, Aziraphale laid next to him, hand in his hand, fingers laced together.Around them, crickets sang and the cool night wind rustled the branches of their orchard.They had reached the tipping point of August, when the world teeters between seasons, warning you to breathe in and savor the last floral wisps of summertime before they fade to fallen leaves.

“Six!” he called excitedly, pointing at the trail of a shooting star.

“Missed it,” Crowley grumbled.“I’m beginning to think you’re stretching the truth.”

“You’re the one who turned it into a competition, dear.I’d be perfectly content sharing the stars with you.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“Sharing is fun.”

“ _Winning_ is fun.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, knowing it was far too dark for Crowley to notice.“And what does the winner get as his reward?”

“Dunno.Whatever he wants?Four!” he shouted, making Aziraphale flinch.“Sorry,” he laughed.“I’m catching up.Watch out.”

Turning his attention back to the sky, he wondered what he’d request when he won. _Whatever he wants._ Studying the stars in their garden, with Crowley’s shoulder pressed against his, he searched for something he wanted that he didn’t already possess and came up stunningly empty. 

Not too long ago, he had seen betrayal and rejection – _“we can run away together”_ – written in these stars, been haunted by what he had done.Tonight, he read only tranquility in their gentle blinking.Twice now, they had fought to keep this peaceful world.The second time, they had fought as one, wiser and stronger than before.Twice, they had won.For any mistakes Aziraphale had made in their past, he knew he was forgiven.He glanced down at his reminder of this gift: the golden band on his finger.

“I thought we were supposed to share everything now,” he said playfully.“That’s what Anathema and Newt promised in their vows, remember?”

“You want to share everything, do you?Your quill collection?”

He hesitated.“If you’re careful, I don’t see why not.”

“And your jumpers?”

“Well… They wouldn’t fit you properly.And they’re not–”

“And your books?Even the first editions?”

“Alright.”Crowley’s shoulders shook from muffled laughter.A grin spread across his face.“Fine, forget it.You called my bluff.You know me too well, I’m afraid.”

“Nah, just the right amount to– Five!”

“And seven!I saw it too.”

“You did not.”

Aziraphale rolled onto his side and stared down at Crowley.“I most definitely did.”

“Cheater,” Crowley said as he lifted his head up for a kiss.“ _If_ you win, what’ll you ask for?”

“Anything I want?”

Crowley nodded.

“I already have everything I could ever want,” he said softly.“I have you.”He watched his words sink in, the way Crowley still looked surprised by them despite all the ways Aziraphale had confessed his love over the years, and then he leaned down and kissed him tenderly.He ran his fingers through long red curls.“I mean it.”

“But that’s no fun,” Crowley whispered with a smirk.

“Fine.I want you to figure out where that awful draft in our bedroom comes from and make it stop.Is that more fun for you?”

Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, Crowley pulled him close.“I take it back.I’m your prize.All you could ever want.Such a sweet sentiment.”

“Now you’re just avoiding–”He was interrupted by Crowley’s lips on his.

Above them, the stars burned and died and burst to life light-years away from where they lay.Another shooting star streaked across the sky, but neither of them noticed.On that late-summer night, as fireflies danced in the garden around them, Crowley and Aziraphale turned their attention away from the escape of the heavens, toward one another and the life they had made together, right there on Earth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this collection of moments. I had a blast writing them and felt more inspired than I have in a long time. A special "thank you" to all who participated in the challenge with me and to everyone who left comments and kudos! I'm sad the challenge came to an end, just as I'm always sad when summer ends.   
>  But you can follow me [on Tumblr as thetunewillcome](https://thetunewillcome.tumblr.com/) for more _Good Omens_ writing and fun!


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